Viper, Viper in the Pit…
by Karama9
Summary: ...Who's the Beachiest One of All? My take on the pie trap meme started by TinySprite and WillWrite4Fics. Needless to say, crack fic. I'm afraid it's not much of a trap, or of a pie, but hopefully it's still entertaining.


**Viper, Viper in the Pit… Who's the Beachiest One of All?**

Author's Notes:

Many thanks to TinySprite for coming up with the Pie Trap idea and allowing me to take a stab at it.

Further thanks to WillWrite4Fics for encouraging me!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log Entry 2.1 (Infiltration Project Phase II, first log entry)

I've arrived at the Pit at 0800. I, the only one of a hundred Sam Patriots who joined the military over the past three years and did their best to earn an assignment with GI Joe; I, who alone will have the honor and pleasure of gathering the information our esteemed Commander desires.

The other recruits and I spent the day being toured around our quarters and the various areas we will be expected to be familiar with, from the mess hall to the armory. My fellow recruits remind me of well-trained puppy dogs: some of them were obviously made nervous by the mere sight of the place, and very literally grew pale or started shaking whenever we crossed some of the full GI Joes. It was quite a pathetic sight.

We were also formally introduced to the Joe in charge of us, Beach Head – or, as we are to address him, Sergeant Major Beach Head. It will be difficult to pretend to respect a Joe, especially this one: he is a loud mouthed, foul smelling, ill-tempered hick. I am, however, confident in my acting abilities.

We were advised that our curfew is 2130 and that PT sessions for the greenshirts are held at 0600. We are to start attending tomorrow, under the direct supervision of Beach Head. I cannot pretend to be looking forward to it, although I don't share the other recruits' apprehensions. Beach Head has a reputation for being a hard trainer, but I am in phenomenal physical shape and my only worry is to make sure I stay in character, which will involve faking at least a little bit of difficulty with whatever training program we are put through.

I have attached a map of the various locations I have seen to date, and descriptions of the following areas: greenshirts quarters, mess hall, rec room 1 (usually used by greenshirts), hand-to-hand classroom or as the Joes call it, the dojo, the motor pool, the PT course (outside area), the firing range (outside area) and finally, the armory.

Hail Cobra!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log Entry 2.2

My fellow recruits and I got up at 0545 and headed straight for PT. They continued to be pathetic, worried all the way about being late or displeasing the Sergeant Major. The PT session was much more intense than I had thought and the fact we are training on an empty stomach makes it difficult to put out the level of effort that is expected of us. Beach Head spent the full hour screaming at everyone, even me. Two of the recruits were actually sent right back home because they started protesting and pointing out the training was ridiculously hard. I'd almost feel bad for them, considering they were absolutely right – pushing people this hard is not healthy: this nutcase of a Joe is going to send us all to the Hospital.

We could barely move once he was done with us: it was a challenge to drag ourselves through the showers and walk to the mess hall. The full Joes and even the more experienced greenshirts laughing at us and patronizing us under the guise of encouraging us did not help matters any. The Joes are just as despicable as I've always pictured them, and at this point, I'm eager for my mission to be finished so that not only can I return to Cobra, but we can mount a successful attack on this pack of fools. I respectfully request authorization to torture Beach Head personally.

We have also done some weapon training today, under various Joes. I have attached descriptions of the strengths and weaknesses of the various weapons we have used.

Hail Cobra!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log Entry 2.3

I've attached descriptions and schematics for the vehicles we were trained on today.

I have reached the conclusion that the Joes are not only despicable, but insane. Beach Head in particular. I am very close to reaching the end of my patience and taking him out – in fact, the only thing stopping me is my strong desire to serve Cobra as well as I can and therefore not blow my cover as long as there is still any information I can gather from the Pit.

Sergeant Major Screams-a-Lot actually believes that my endurance needs work, and has decided that the best way to remedy this perceived flaw was to scream at me until my ears ring whenever I don't look like I'm dying on his accursed PT course. The man has NEVER heard of a respectful workplace. He calls me names, he curses, he gets right in my face and if I try to back up to get away from the stench or the source of the decibels, he only gets even worse.

The other greenshirts are somehow convinced that he is the same way with them, but to anyone with half a brain, it is painfully obvious that he has it in for me. And it's not even because he suspects where my true loyalties are, I can guarantee it. Even hand-to-hand with the ninjas – including that traitor Storm Shadow - and that red-headed female fury is RELAXING compared to PT.

I hate the Joes now more than ever. I hate HIM. I can't wait to participate in their slaughter, and I look forward to personally kill the Sergeant Major. Slowly, and while screaming at him the whole time.

Hail Cobra! Death to GI Joe!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log entry 2.4

Schematics and descriptions attached.

Beach Head is enough to turn anybody off any kind of physical training. I swear, the other greenshirts must have been brainwashed since birth to honestly believe ANYTHING is worth this. Then again, Beach Head is much worse with me than with any of them. I keep expecting him to send me away and ruin my chance to serve Cobra. He's sent 7 recruits away since I've started here, despite not being nearly as much on their backs as on mine. I figure he enjoys torturing me.

He will pay.

He stinks. He's loud. He doesn't even make sense! He's always calling me a lady or a pogue! I hate him. I despise him. It is SO difficult to remain in character and not jump for his throat. This mission is very taxing, but my loyalty to Cobra is unwavering.

Death to GI Joe! Hail Cobra!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log entry 2.5

I will attach more schematics and descriptions with my next log entry.

Today is a glorious day! I know how to take out Beach Head, and nobody will ever find out it was me. It's the perfect crime! It will be a piece of cake! And by cake I mean pie, and by piece I mean the whole thing. He's a pig.

The Joes are idiots. They maintain betting pools, and one of them is on a stupid prank directed at Beach Head. Don't ask me why, but the objective is to bait him with pie and trap him under a box for a certain length of time. BeachHead, being a pig and a savage, allows himself to be trapped every time in order to eat the pie, and eats the WHOLE THING before he bothers getting out of the trap.

It is SO easy… I already have the pie baked and the box is ready to attach to the ceiling. I'm not bothering to make a working trap. The pie is poisoned… Beach Head will die a horribly painful death within an hour of eating it.

I'm having a hard time not laughing in glee. I'm so happy to eliminate this particular Joe for you.

Death to Beach Head! Hail Cobra!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log entry 2.6

Yes. YES! YES!

He ate it. He walked right up to it, picked it up, laughed at the box that didn't fall and just sat against the wall and ate the thing. DESPITE complaining that it was apple again AND noting the bitter flavor.

This is already among the best days of my life, and it's only morning. I can't wait to hear the announcement of his death.

Hail Cobra!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log entry 2.6.2

He survived. The accursed fool survived! I can't believe it! I KNOW I've put enough poison in there to be lethal! I bet it's because he'll eat anything, he must have antibodies developed for every poison known to man.

I've found out from asking for him all over the place that he spent about two hours throwing up in the infirmary and cursing between each heave, and then walked away and had to be forcefully brought back to be kept under observation.

HE WALKED AWAY. He should be DEAD! I hate Joes. I hate Rangers. I HATE HIM!

I haven't done any schematics or descriptions today. I will resume tomorrow.

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log entry 2.7

Our regular training has been cut back due to the ongoing investigation to find who poisoned Beach Head, and we haven't worked on any equipment or weapon I haven't already described. I have attached what information I have gathered on various Joes.

The investigation is of course a waste of time. They have interrogated me, as well as everyone else, but they have absolutely no idea, nor will they ever.

I have risen above the bitter disappointment I felt yesterday, and will take satisfaction in getting for you the information that will allow Cobra to eliminate all of GI Joe, including Beach Head, once and for all.

I must cut this entry short, the investigators are back for more questions.

Hail Cobra, and death to GI Joe!

* * *

Spy Viper Sam Patriot 42, Log entry 2.8

This is an outrage. They must have a telepath on staff, there is no other explanation.

Me, the greatest Spy Viper of them all, in a common cell! I don't understand. I don't know how this happened, my plan was flawless. Telepath. It HAS to be a telepath! Aren't they forbidden by the Geneva Convention?

This is grossly unfair. I could not even send you my previous reports, they were seized. All this information, all the outstanding work I've done… lost.

This is all HIS fault. Beach Head. I will kill him slowly as soon as I'm out of here. I will rip his indestructible gut out through his nose. I will feed him his own filthy, stinky toes! He should have died! He should have died, and I should have been a hero to Cobra!

This is…

* * *

The guard who'd had the misfortune of being assigned this particular prisoner put in one earplug at that point and pressed the phone against his other ear, dialing the line he needed as quickly as he could. The dialing noise dimmed out the rant that was coming from the cell even more and for that, was sweeter than the nicest music.

"Look, I need to talk to Flint: this is a mental health issue. We HAVE to give him some finger paint or something so he can write his report. I can't stand to listen to it anymore. He's been going on for an hour, and you know what? He doesn't actually have that much imagination; he's just been repeating himself over and over again! Flint's going to have to let us get him something to write on, or I swear I'm going to start screaming to drown him out and I'm not going to stop until I'm put on medical leave. So GET ME FLINT!"

Fin


End file.
